


The Sensation of Loss

by Violent_Winds_and_Waiting_Rooms



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, F/M, Heavy Angst, Holmes Brothers, Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft-centric, Permanent Injury, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 08:55:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3350792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violent_Winds_and_Waiting_Rooms/pseuds/Violent_Winds_and_Waiting_Rooms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft faces almost certain death.  Extremely heavy on the angst and torture.  I was in a dark mood.  You’ve been warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fall

They are going to kill him.  They are going to kill Mycroft Holmes to send a message.

Mycroft kneels.  Although his face portrays no emotion, his eyes are shut.  He is too busy looking at his thoughts, ignoring the chill and the soreness of his muscles.  He ignores the hunger in his concave stomach.  He ignores the abrasions on his wrists, tied behind his back.  He ignores the three bloody, crusty stumps on his left hand where fingers used to be located.  He ignores the barrel of the gun, pointed towards the back of his head.

He ignores it all.

_He is busy watching young Sherlock play with Redbeard.  The sounds of his laugher echo in the large halls of the Holmes manor.  Everything is pristine.  Safe.  Mycroft settles down at the piano, positions his body in the appropriate form, and starts to play.  Mummy taught him “Mary Had a Little Lamb” when he was 4.  His repertoire is not so modest now, but he chooses to play everything and nothing in particular.  Mycroft follows his instinct but the sound turns out just fine.  Those are the songs Sherlock likes best- the ones that follow no set rules.  It delights his older brother to surprise him._

The legs of a tripod are extended and a video camera is placed.  The lens points at Mycroft.  Someone fiddles with the device.  It makes whirring noises, prompting Mycroft to crack open his eyes.  They feel dry.  The light is too bright.

The daydream wasn’t strong enough.

_Mycroft is nestled on Mummy’s lap.  She reads to him “The Secret Garden,” and he imagines roses and ivy.  Tall walls surround fountains and swings.  Birds fly overhead, cascading from his mother’s mouth.  “Robins,” she says wistfully, and translates the word into French.  Mummy’s maiden name is Vernet, and she loves all things French.  Mycroft insists on learning Russian and Farsi just to tease her, and pretends to know less French than he truly does.  Mummy takes it in stride, smiling._

_“I guess I’ll just have to teach Sherlock instead,” she sings._

_The toddler looks up from his playpen with bright, intelligent eyes.  It’s as though he understands the conversation.  “No, Mummy,” Mycroft insists, “I want to teach Sherlock.”_

_“Alright, but only if you teach him correctly,” she replies.  Mycroft speaks only in French for the next six months to prove he’s serious.  Sherlock’s first word is frère._

The man with the gun is talking to the camera.  His voice is quick, tense, elevated.  Mycroft’s heart rate is increasing, despite his attempts to relax and the fatigue weighing down his body.  The gun is still pressed to his head.  Mycroft hopes the terrorist gets the job done quickly; the torture was prolonged and unnecessary.  Mycroft would never pour forth the secrets contained in his mind.  “Please, God, let me die,” he prays.  Mycroft was never suited for fieldwork.

The anticipation would make him flustered.  If the video showed him flustered that would upset his brother.  _Finish the job._

_Sherlock playing pirate with Redbeard.  Sherlock playing consulting detective with Dr. John (Confirmed Bachelor) Watson.  The goldfish pond Mummy set up when Sherlock was four.  Anthea showing off a farting app on her phone during a long plane ride.  Dad singing theater songs in the shower, Mycroft and Sherlock giggling and snorting outside the bathroom door._

The gun moves and fires at once.  Mycroft falls forward.  _Finally,_ he thinks, except the wound is not final.  His mind registers the nonfatal injury before shutting down from hemorrhagic shock.

-

People in pale blue come and go.  Mycroft sees them through fog.  He is tired, and refuses to wake.  He vaguely registers his brother’s dark curls.  _Go away, Sherlock.  I’ve had three exams this week.  Let me sleep,_ he begs.

Sherlock tells him that the video camera contained a tracker.  The rescue team arrived, and the terrorist took a wild shot at Mycroft, hoping to finish the job.  He and his associates were all killed by the rescue team.

A nurse tells Mycroft he’s in _blah-blah-blah_ room in _blah-blah-blah_ hospital, and it’s a Thursday.  Buh humbug.  Every day and no day is a Thursday.  Mycroft is delirious from sepsis; there’s no point in trying to orient him to reality.  He realizes he is getting worse, not better.

-

He hears the beautiful voice of Sherlock’s Stradivarius, and isn’t sure whether his mind is playing tricks or Sherlock obtained permission to play in the unit.  No.  That’s not correct- Sherlock never left, so he could not have fetched his violin.  John must have brought the instrument.

Mycroft’s face is wet.  He slowly realizes that he is crying, from pain, or …? The music stops, and Sherlock’s shadow falls over him.  “Mycroft,” his brother whispers, followed by several strings of French.  Sherlock’s hand rests on Mycroft’s forearm.

He hears the familiar voices of several people who come and go- Detective Inspector Lestrade, John, Anthea, Mummy, Molly, and others.  Mycroft wonders if he is dead already and people are coming to pay their respects.  No such luck.  He sees no flowers and realizes he must be in an Intensive Care Unit.

-

After two weeks Mycroft’s vision starts to clear.  He feels an odd sensation and brings his hands to his throat.  “Stop touching that!” Sherlock barks, holding down his wrists.  Within seconds a tube is removed from his throat, lest he remove it himself.  Mycroft sports the worst sore throat he’s ever experienced.  The hospital staff transport him to a different unit- he no longer requires the level of care the ICU provides.  He realizes he is not going to be pushing up daisies just yet.  Sherlock goes home- and showers, thank God.  Even with his senses dulled, Mycroft could tell basic hygiene was sorely needed by the odor emanating from his brother’s corner of the room.

Mycroft does not remember well what he said during this time, nor what was said to him.  The whole situation ends up fuzzy.  He is given four whole months of leave to take care of his health- physical and mental.

Anthea still stops in daily, if only for five minutes to greet Mycroft and wish him a good day.  Mycroft _does_ remember this.


	2. The Hell

He requests that his pain medications be switched to a less potent combination.  The resulting clarity is too much at first.  Mycroft’s left mouth and cheek are permanently numb.  He is told that at some point, he was bashed repeatedly in the face with the butt of a gun.  Luckily his eye socket is intact.  The left side of his face is not.  In an effort to ignore the resulting deformities, Mycroft avoids looking in a mirror.  It isn’t enough; he tries to speak, but the words are slurred.  He tries to eat applesauce, but it dribbles down his chin onto the bedsheets.

Mycroft understands that he cannot play the piano as he could before due to his missing digits.  He is glad for the bandages; there are none over his torso where the bullet entry and exit scars are.  Mycroft also notices that he has lost both fat and muscle mass, for a total of 14 kilograms.  All that the weight loss cost him was several weeks of torture, then a few more weeks in the hospital.  Mycroft jokes about the irony, but Sherlock doesn’t find the situation humorous.

“Not fun, is it, being the visiting party?” Mycroft observes.

In the past, Sherlock would have left in a fury at that reference.  “Don’t do it again,” Sherlock orders icily.  He makes no motion to leave.

“It’s hardly as though I had a choice, brother mine.”

“I thought I could trust them- your monkeys!  How could you let yourself be taken captive?”  Sherlock’s accusation does not come at a surprise.  He had been holding back his anger for weeks.  Mycroft, The British Government, is not allowed to have any points of weakness, except perhaps a love of cake and tea.

“I’m not infallible, nor are my colleagues.  Statistically speaking, this type of situation should have already happened at least twice.”

“That’s reassuring,” Sherlock snorts. His eyes stray down to Mycroft’s bandaged hand before quickly snapping away.  Mycroft waits for his brother to continue. “I…. saw the video.”

“The video?”

“You know what video!” Sherlock yells.  “The video of you getting shot- it was in evidence.  I saw it.”

“Delete it, then.”

“I can’t.”  Sherlock is still looking away.  Mycroft sees the old madness in his brother that drove him to self-destructive behaviors.

Mycroft thought he had used up all sensation of fear, but it is the thought of losing his little brother which sends him over the edge.  He bends his head into his hands, the tears caught by the bandages.  Sherlock quickly offers up a host of apologies; none reach Mycroft’s ears.  Loud, impolite sobs burst up from his throat.

**-**

Mycroft starts working …part-time, from home.  He avoids using the telephone, afraid his slurred, jarred speech will not be taken seriously.  Likewise, meetings are limited.  When Mycroft attends, his old colleagues stare at his disfigured face.  He wonders what they’ve been whispering about behind his back, but makes no effort to find out.

More than ever, Anthea is important.  He dictates to her when he has given up his attempts at typing on his laptop, and in meetings she acts as his gateway and stand-in.  She does not stare or ask questions.  She does not treat her boss like glass.  When Mycroft’s speech isn’t clear, Anthea ever patiently requests he repeat himself.

“Humor me,” he implores her one day.

“Sir?”

“Let me kiss you.”  Anthea, as always, asks no questions.  She lets Mycroft lean in and caress her face.  He brings his lips to hers.

The results of the experiment are sadly predictable.  Mycroft sighs and leans away.  “Thank you, Anthea, you may go.”  She frowns and leaves her boss to his solitude.

Mycroft brushes his fingers over his lips.  He tries to remember what a kiss felt like before, so he can compare.  They are nothing alike.  It no longer comes naturally.  The sensation is drastically reduced on his left side.  Mycroft feels robbed.  When he had trips to the dentist as a child, numbing agents were a source of amusement.  Sherlock tried to get a cavity on purpose just so he, too, could experience the sensation of a swollen, numb mouth.  Childhood innocence looks so different in hindsight.

Normally, under stress Mycroft would sit down at the grand piano, work, or enjoy some fine cakes.  None of these activities are an option anymore.  Eating and chewing more a chore than anything else.  Mycroft spends most hours in his manor library, looking out the window and staring at the fields of _Calluna vulgaris_.  He rubs at the leather and misses his chair at the Diogenes.

Sherlock stops by unannounced one day.  Mycroft quickly assesses him to determine that Sherlock isn’t abusing substances.  “You haven’t given me any cases,” he accuses.  “I’m bored.”

“Not my problem, brother,” Mycroft sighs.

“I want a case.”  Sherlock stares him down amidst pacing.

“Well, we can’t always get what we want, now can we.”  It isn’t a question, but a statement.

“Mycroft, give me what I want!”

“I don’t have a case!” Mycroft seethes.  “But that isn’t what you want, anyway.”

“I want a case!” Sherlock insists again.

“You can get those from Lestrade.”  Mycroft deflates in his chair.  He makes an attempt to rub his face with both hands.  Remembering that one isn’t entirely intact, he sets it back on the chair’s arm and rubs at his face with his ‘good’ hand.  “You want a case _from me._   You want _me_ to give you a case.  Well, I’m not working much so I haven’t been involved in anything particularly intriguing.”

“You haven’t eaten much, either.  You’ve lost more weight.”

“Normally you have the opposite complaint.”

“It was never a complaint!” Sherlock roars.  “What’s so intriguing out your window, anyway? Grass, birds, sky- boring.  Go back to work!”

“People stare.”

“People have always stared- you’re a Holmes.”

“They won’t take me seriously.”

“They would if you stopped acting pathetic!  Get off your behind and quit hiding behind Andrea!”

“ _Anthea_.”

“Whatever!  You’re worrying Mummy.”

“I’m worrying _you_ ,” Mycroft retorts tensely.

“Yes!  You are!  I insist you stop!  So what if you can’t eat cake?  Drink milkshakes!  Can’t play piano?  Learn harmonica!  It will take you, what? A day?”  Sherlock gesticulates wildly as he paces.

“It’s not that _simple,_ Sherlock.”

“It is!”

“What would _you_ know?”

“I’ve been injured many times!”

“Not. Permanently.”  Mycroft leans back, figuring he’s gotten in the last word.

After a moment of silence, Sherlock seems to calm.  He takes a chair opposite his brother and stares him down.  Sherlock's hands come together as if in prayer.“I thought so,” he starts out slowly, his voice full of clarity.  “I thought I was broken.  Destined for death in an opium den.”  Mycroft turns away, remembering Sherlock’s past.  “I barely remembered what feeling well was like.  Redbeard was dead.  You weren’t there.  My mind never stopped, or did not work.  There was no in-between.  There was no direction, no passion, no purpose.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft starts to say, but his train of thought leaves him.  The situations are not the same, but Sherlock does know the sensation of loss.

“I don’t know what to do to help you.”

“I don’t know what to do either.”

Sherlock’s face scrunches up angrily.  “Go back to work, obviously.  And bring me some cases.”

Not one to stay still, Sherlock jumps up to take his leave.  Mycroft realizes that his brother got the last word. He stares at the flaring back of the Belstaff coat before opening his cell phone.  He makes an effort to dial with his “bad” hand.  “Anthea.  I’ll be returning to work tomorrow.  Please make arrangements.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I appreciate your words of encouragement and kudos. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Hmm, should I post more? Let me know. This is my first time putting up a fic. Kudos and comments are appreciated.


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